Another delayed Sandwich of the Week. Feeling like the back is now appropriately rested and we can be back on the weekend schedule next week. Only next week is Memorial Day Weekend, which really throws the whole system into flux. So we’ll see how that all plays out.

The sandwich: House-roasted turkey, fresh mozzarella, broccoli rabe, hot peppers, olive oil and balsamic vinegar on a roll from Milano Market, 89th and 3rd in Manhattan.

The construction: See “the sandwich.”

Important background information: Everything about Milano Market practically shouted that it would serve delicious sandwiches. In the window sat piles of fresh-looking loaves of bread and inside hung various cured meats.

I saw no list of specialty sandwiches so I began mentally concocting something pork-free (as per my promise) while a couple of experienced looking deli men took orders from the people on line in front of me. A kid with a wispy mustache, no older than 18, asked if he could help me. A prodigy perhaps?

Apparently not. When I listed the ingredients I wanted on my sandwich, he was incredulous. I needed to repeat every one. Some of them twice. “Broccoli rabe… on the sandwich?” he asked. “Hot peppers… on the sandwich?”

Look, bro: We can work together and create a great sandwich here but I can only take you halfway. Yeah, I recognize this might not be some plain old ham and cheese but excuse me if I’m trying to conceive something new and special.

Oh, what? You thought I was content to just sit back and write about this sandwich game? No way. I’m in it.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Maddeningly inconsistent.

I’ll get back to that in a sec, but first off, this sandwich could have been aesthetically improved if the broccoli rabe were placed on the bread before the turkey. Its hunter green clashes with the olive green of the hot peppers. Plus I think that could’ve helped the young sandwich artist eyeball the hot-pepper placement a little better, since it was problematic on this sandwich.

On the bites when there was an appropriate proportion of turkey, mozzarella, bread, pepper, broccoli rabe and vinegar, this sandwich was amazing. Transcendent.

The turkey itself was a little dry and nothing really to write home about, but it gives meaty bulk to the sandwich and prevents the rest of the flavors from overwhelming the mouth. And the combination of creaminess from the cheese, spice and crunch from the peppers and tang from the vinegar with the moisture, texture and subtle flavor of the broccoli rabe — damn.

Only I got maybe three bites like that, tops. There was too much turkey on the sandwich, and way too few hot peppers. And nothing was evenly distributed.

Keep working, kid.

Oh also I’m pretty sure there was no olive oil.

What it’s worth: That’s the other thing. Somehow this sandwich cost $12. Could that be right?

How it rates: 81 out of 100. I urge you to try out this same combination of ingredients, though. There’s potential for a great, great sandwich here.

Another week, another delayed sandwich. My bad. Resting my back again. It’s on the mend I think.

This one came via recommendation from noted Twitterer @Bobby_BigWheel, who in fact joined me for the sandwich. That turned out to be important, since I would not have been able to figure out the system on my own. More on that in a bit.

For like the billionth straight week, the sandwich of the week includes pork. Actually, this sandwich includes almost exclusively pork. My bad. I hereby promise that next week’s sandwich will not include pork. Even if that means me eating something humble that I construct myself, like just a ham and cheese or something, I’ll do it. Wait, ham, no!

The sandwich: Porchetta on Italian bread from Di Palo Dairy, 200 Grand St. in Manhattan.

The construction: Porchetta on Italian bread.

Only it’s a little more complex than that…

Important background information: The system at Di Palo is not an intuitive one. This is why it’s good to go with someone experienced like Mr. BigWheel. Since it is a meat-and-cheese shop and not necessarily foremost a sandwich purveyor, you first take a number at the counter, then go pick out bread. When it’s your turn, you hand them the bread you’ve chosen — a loaf of Italian bread is an obvious choice for a hero — then tell them what you want on it, and how much.

A half-pound is a good guideline for a hefty hero-sized sandwich. I don’t know if anyone adds cheese or any other sort of meat to porchetta sandwiches. They were recommended to me with only porchetta, and I was so busy trying to figure out the system (and running a bit late, to boot) that I wasn’t about to stray from the standard.

Porchetta, I should say, is an Italian roast pork. From the Internet, it seems like it is the type of thing that varies pretty widely in terms of preparation and seasoning.

What it looks like:

How it tastes: Amazing. That is to say this is a sandwich that prompts amazement.

Specifically, I am amazed: a) That a food which is technically only one thing — porchetta — can be responsible for such an outrageous array of flavors and textures and b) That I had somehow gone 30 years and nearly four months without eating that thing.

Holy crap, that’s a good thing.

I’m guessing Di Palo’s porchetta — maybe all porchetta? — comes from the belly of the pig (the part we use for bacon), because there’s crispy, salty skin in there, enough to give the whole sandwich some crunch. And then there’s the fat — I know that sounds gross, but consider that there’s no dressing on this sandwich and a lot of what we use to dress sandwiches isn’t much different than pure fat anyway — which seeps into the bread and makes the whole thing practically drip with moisture. And the hunks of pork-flavored pork. Oh lord WE HAVE TO GO BACK.

And the seasonings! I don’t even know what was in there. Rosemary?  Is that rosemary? I think that’s rosemary. It’s delicious. There’s a peppery kick, too — a spicyness that gets you toward the end of the sandwich, that you don’t even notice at the beginning because you’re too busy thinking about how awesome pork is.

How awesome is pork?

Sorry. Look, lest you think this is some sort of weird cultural or religious schaudenfreude and I’m trying to brag that my particular backgrounds allow me to enjoy the meat of this particular beast, trust that I just happen to really, really enjoy the meat of this particular beast. It’s so amazing. I mean, chicken is great and all, but I defy you to find me a chicken that — no matter how it’s prepared — can produce half as many flavors and textures as you’ll find on a sandwich like this one. You can’t. There’s no chicken.

I didn’t even get to the bread on this sandwich. That was great too. Enshrine it!

What it’s worth: You pay for the meat by the pound and the bread is separate, even though they construct it for you. All told, the sandwich was something like $7.16.

How it rates: 93 out of 100.